Compile
by Brightdreamer
Summary: When Sam is badly injured with no time to get him to a hospital, Alan takes him into the Grid as a last-ditch effort to buy him time and save his life. Saving Sam comes with a price, though... will Sam be able to live with it? Sam/Tron in future chapters.
1. Attack

They jump him out of nowhere, five of them, just as he's parking his motorcycle in front of the old arcade. Sam's running late, and he knows he should have told Alan to just meet him here tomorrow, but he's so excited about all the progress they'd been making on rebuilding the Grid. Absent-minded, he's parked in the alley and doesn't notice the gang until it's too late.

Sam's no pushover when it comes to fighting, though, and he's managed to take out two of them when he sees the glint of metal. _Knife!_ He dodges, feeling the blade slash through his leather coat, then kicks, trying to knock the weapon out of the thug's hand. Focused on the hulking, slower attacker with the switchblade, he fails to notice the quick little guy who darts in behind his back until it's almost too late. Spinning around, he swings his arm up, catching the blade in his forearm, the knife tearing a gash through his jacket and flesh alike. He gasps, the pain causing him to reel back, and then they're on him in earnest. One of the guys he's taken out earlier is back on his feet, his arm around Sam's neck, and though Sam struggles and kicks, he's soon pinned, his arms held behind his back.

"Shouldn't be out in this part of town, pretty boy," the apparent leader of the gang spits, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. He's a stocky, fair-skinned kid, younger than Sam, his greasy dyed-black hair hanging into his eyes.

"Think I've learned my lesson," Sam says, forcing a grin. "How 'bout you let me go and we call it a night, huh?" He can feel blood trickling down his arm, sliding under the torn sleeve of his coat, making the grip of the thug holding him slippery. If he can just pull free...

"Oh no," the other replies, twirling his knife absently in his hand. "You hurt my boy over there, see?" He nods toward the one still groaning on the ground. Sam remembers kicking out the mugger's kneecaps, then ramming his head into a brick wall... yeah. He isn't getting up any time soon.

Sam tries not to let the fear show in his eyes as he tilts his head up, facing the would-be mugger. "Yeah? He was trying to hurt me, y'know..." The hands on his arms tighten cruelly for that, and the knife is suddenly closer, tracing down the side of his face.

"Whaddya say, boys?" the black-haired leader sneers. "Should we bleed this punk?"

Amidst the cheers and catcalls, Sam finds his gaze wandering to the arcade, wondering if Alan heard the commotion outside, wondering if any help is coming, wondering if they'll find his body outside later and if Quorra will be all right on her own now and _oh...!_ That hurt.

Sam gasps and jerks his attention back, the smirking face of the thug wavering in front of him. Glancing down, he sees the boy's fist against his side, but that shouldn't hurt, not this burning pain like getting cut with an identity disc, but then he sees that he's still holding the handle of the knife and it's buried in his ribs and now it's starting to hurt to breathe...

The gang leader seems disappointed when Sam doesn't cry out, a look of anger crossing his face. "Tough guy, huh?" Pulling the knife out, he stabs Sam twice more, once in the stomach and again in the side, the blade nearly as long as his palm digging deeply into soft flesh. Sam jerks and gasps, his head falling forward, and he's dimly aware that his arms have been released and he's slumping to the ground. Rough hands dig through his pockets, taking his wallet, keys, cellphone, and then boots are kicking him, hard, jeers and laughter echoing overhead. He hears the roar of his motorcycle _No, no, that's Dad's, don't take that_ and then all is utter silence.

Curling up, Sam presses his hand and wounded arm to his side, feeling his t-shirt soaking through with blood. His head is throbbing, and every breath rattles in his chest. Coughing, he feels wetness splatter his lips, and he moans, trying to get his feet underneath him. The wounds in his side don't feel so bad, they don't hurt, but there's a numbness spreading through his entire body, and Sam's been a daredevil long enough to know that's a bad sign. "Alan..." he gasps, pushing himself up on his good arm, his throat raw. "Alan..."

He has to get inside. Alan is downstairs, working on code for the Grid. Alan can help him. Alan will know what to do. Alan _always_ knew what to do, whether it was putting a bandage on a scraped knee after a spill from his bike, or giving him an ice-pack for a black eye after a fight at school, or taking him to the emergency room when he'd broken his arm. _This's a little worse than any of that,_ Sam thinks, and nearly laughs, hysteria beginning to take hold. Somehow, he manages to push himself close enough to the wall to stand, staggering, stumbling his way to the door. Alan had left it unlocked, lucky for Sam since the muggers took his keys, and he pushes the door open, nearly slipping and falling on the linoleum floor. Blood is dripping between his fingers now, and he isn't sure if it's from his arm or his stomach or his side and it doesn't really _matter_, does it, if he's losing that much?

He has to get to the basement. Focusing on the glowing letters at the far back of the arcade, Sam pulls himself from game to game, leaving bloody handprints on the buttons and joysticks, making his way to TRON, the neon lights wavering and flickering in his rapidly-darkening vision. He throws his entire weight against the TRON game, nearly sliding to the floor as it swings aside, revealing the hidden door, but no, no, he can't fall, if he does he might never get up. The stairs beyond descend into darkness, tilting and beckoning Sam to tumble and fall, but somehow he manages to stay upright, leaning against the wall, leaving bright smears of blood on the brick. It's cold, far too cold down here, and Sam is shaking uncontrollably by the time he reaches the lower door. A twist of the rusty handle, and there, there's Alan, sitting hunched over the old computer, typing away at some new code.

"A-Alan..." Sam manages to choke out through the blood in his throat, and then he's falling, the room tilting around him, a rushing, roaring sound filling his ears.

* * *

><p>Sam's voice is all wrong, that's the first thing Alan can think after he hears the door creak open. Even before he can turn to look, his heart is pounding, that <em>oh-god-what-happened<em> feeling thick in his chest, that same feeling he got every time Sam would show up bruised and scraped on his doorstep these past twenty years. But this, this is far worse, and Alan is across the room before he can think of standing, sliding to his knees on the concrete to catch Sam before his head hits the floor. There's blood _everywhere,_ too much of it, soaked into Sam's t-shirt and jeans and covering his hands and dripping down onto the floor now and _where is it all coming from_?

"Sam," he says, cradling the younger man's shoulders, trying to get him to look at him. "Sam, what happened?"

For a horrible moment he thinks Sam's passed out already, but then there's a shaky breath and those blue eyes manage to focus for a moment. "Stupid... was stupid..." he murmurs, then coughs, blood splattering the front of Alan's pressed blue dress shirt. "Mugged. _Me._ Silly, huh?" His hand grips the front of his own shirt, tugging it up slightly. "Had... had a knife. Got me... doesn't hurt too bad though... think s'gonna be okay..." Sam's words are slow, slurred, obviously said with effort.

Alan swallows, gently shifting Sam to lie on the floor. Carefully, he eases Sam's arm up, moving his shirt to see the extent of the damage. His breath catches as he sees two... no, three stab wounds, now gushing fresh blood at the movement. Quickly, he replaces the shirt and presses his hand over the worst, trying to ignore Sam's gasp of pain.

"Nnn... hurts now..."

"Good... that's good... no going into shock on me, okay, kid?" Alan fumbles in his pockets with his free, searching for his phone... there's his pager clipped to his belt, his keys, his wallet... and with startling clarity, he sees his brand-new iPhone at home, sitting plugged into the charger. Wincing, he begins searching through Sam's blood-soaked jacket. "Sam... Sam, where's your phone?"

Sam's breath rattles in his chest again as he makes the effort to speak. "Took it... took everythin'..." He coughs, his body convulsing painfully, and Alan's hand slips, blood seeping through his fingers. Sam looks up at him, a slow, lazy smile on his face. "Wha'... you forgot yours? Heh... shoud'a... should'a known... betch'a got... that pager though... same ol' Alan..." His voice trails off as his eyes slip closed, and Alan feels cold dread grip him again.

"Sam... Sam! Stay with me!" There's no phone at the Arcade, he knows that, and in this abandoned part of town, there's no telling where he'd be able to find one. Sam needs an ambulance _now_, needs to be in an emergency room with doctors and nurses, not an aging software programmer with blood trickling through his fingers, Sam's life force leaking onto the floor beneath them. There's no way he can move Sam back up the stairs either... by the time he got him to the car, it would be far too late. "Sam..." He has to do _something_, or he's going to watch this boy, this man, his... his _son_, by all rights, bleed to death on the floor in front of him.

Glancing frantically around the room, he pauses as he catches sight of the laser, looming in the center of the dusty basement. He and Sam have made several trips to the Grid over the past months, rebuilding, recompiling the place, but this... this would be far different. A trip to save Sam's life? Was it even possible? He knows time passes differently on the Grid... could he bring Sam there and return to the world in time to get him an ambulance? Or maybe on the Grid, there might be another way...

Looking back at Sam, he can see that the younger man's eyes are focused on the laser as well. Sam gives him a small smile and a nod. "Y-yeah. Let's... let's go..."

He doesn't remember how he got Sam into position in front of the laser, sitting propped up in the chair by the old computer. There's far too much blood, and Sam's barely conscious any more, his face chalk-white and smeared with dirt. With trembling fingers, Alan types in the sequence that will activate the laser, then holds Sam's shoulders tightly as they plunge into the vortex.


	2. Scream

**A/N: **This is a short update, but I like where this chapter ends. So enjoy the cliffhanger. Thanks to all of my reviewers, and be sure to check out my other fics!

Tron has seen a User bleed before. Kevin Flynn had fallen and scraped his knee on the sharp rocks of the Outlands, laughed, and showed Tron the red substance welling through the torn fabric of his pants. _Betch'a never seen anything like that, huh?_ He'd seen it again, in the Arena, when he'd nearly cut Sam Flynn down, thinking him only another program, and the drop of red splashing on the mirrored surface had told his true identity. _User...?_

But nothing like this. Never like this. Never has he held a User's life in his hands, literally, feeling warmth pulse over his fingers, staining red over his circuits as Sam struggles to breathe on the floor of the Arcade where the Users arrive. Only a few minutes ago, he'd entered this place, eager to greet the Users again after he'd seen the Portal light up... only to find Alan cradling Sam in his arms, red covering them both, the circuits on Sam's suit already fading. He'd rushed to them, wanting to help, but what could he do...?

"Keep pressure on it, Tron," Alan says, and Tron nods, shifting on his knees, his hands slipping where the suit has derezzed, trying to ignore the way Sam cries out weakly and tries to pull his fingers away. Red is spreading underneath him, too much, too fast, and Tron can't stop it, there's too much for him to hold and why isn't Alan doing anything?

Raising his gaze, he meets the eyes of his User, seeing his own desperate expression mirrored there. "Alan-1?" he murmurs, his voice tense, slipping back into the old name of his creator.

"I thought I'd buy him time," Alan replies, his hand hovering over Sam's shoulder. "But there's not enough... he'll never make it to the Portal, even if I can get there and get an ambulance back for him..."

An irrational surge of anger rushes through Tron, and he presses harder on Sam's wounds. "You're a _User_," he growls, staring intently at his own creator. "He hasn't derezzed yet. _Fix_ him. You can do that, right?" In all honesty, Tron doesn't know what, exactly, the User can do here. But he's seen programs on the brink of deresolution brought back by the skilled hand of an admin program or compiler. Alan and Sam had worked together to recode his own corruption from Clu as well... could this be something that a User could fix?

"Tron, it doesn't work like..." Alan looks doubtful, but then his mouth sets in a firm line as Sam moans and coughs again, a horrible choking sound, blood splattering the floor. "I'll try."

Tron helps Alan to roll Sam onto his side, holding him steady as the other pulls his identity disc from his back. The disc is glowing a sickly white, barely pulsing, and if Sam was a program, Tron would expect him to crumble to millions of pixels in his arms any second now. "Hurry," he urges, feeling Sam shiver and moan beneath him. He tears his gaze away from Sam's pale face, streaked with blood and dirt, and watches as Alan's fingers move over the code now streaming from the disc. Tron is no User, and the lines of swirling, entwined blue-white light mean nearly nothing to him, but even he can see the angry red of the damaged parts, the pieces of code flaking away, dripping off in pieces the same way the blood is oozing from between his fingers.

Alan's fingers hesitate, then fly over the code, tugging, trying to repair the parts before they fall, but there's too much, even Tron can see that, and he meets his creator's eyes over the beam of light, seeing the despair and desperation there. "I don't... I don't know how to..." Alan begins, his hands hovering over Sam's disc, the light of the code crumbling beneath his fingers. "There's too much damage, I need something to patch it, I can't make this code repair itself. I don't even know where to start, it's too complex."

Tron frowns, then leans over Sam's body, unwilling to move his hands even for a moment, knowing that he holds Sam's life in precious seconds. "Use my disc, Alan-1," he says, offering his back with a bowed head, stretched nearly prone across Sam's body, his hands still pressed tight to his abdomen. This close, he can hear Sam's breath, shaky, weak, coming in gasps, and he doesn't know how much time the younger User has, but it isn't _enough_. "You know my code. _Use_ it."

It only takes a moment, but it feels like cycles before Alan snaps the dual discs from Tron's back. A tap of fingers, and Tron sees his own code appear beside Sam's, infinitely less complex, but stable, rolling lines of text transferring into a column, a single strand where Sam's has a double helix shape. Tron lifts his head, watching as Alan's long fingers tug a line here, a patch there, and merge it into Sam's decaying code. Slowly, slowly, the angry red holes begin to disappear, the chips of coding ceasing their slow leak into the air around them. Tron relaxes slightly, looking down at Sam, but then remembers that the repairs won't take place until the disc is re-integrated with the User. Biting back the urge to tell Alan to hurry, he shifts on the floor, his hand slipping on one of the terrible wounds to Sam's stomach. Sam writhes weakly and cries out, and Alan pauses, falters in his coding, and the twisting strands begin to unwind.

"I've got him," Tron hastens to reassure his User, pushing his hands tighter against Sam's abdomen. Fresh blood coats his hands, the glow of his circuits barely visible through the sticky red substance, and he feels his internal systems glitch and twist at the sight. He closes his eyes, blocking out the visual input, but he can still feel the warmth of the young User's life seeping between his fingers. He knows they haven't been here even a fraction of a microcycle, but it seems like it's been far longer, the time punctuated only by Sam's increasingly ragged gasps and soft moans.

"There! I've got it..." Alan breaks the silence, his voice hoarse and shaking. "I think... yes. I've got it..." Tron's eyes fly open and he looks at the disc in his User's hands, watching the light swirl upward. There are no signs of the angry red wounds, no derezzing code chipping away, and though Tron cannot read the code himself, he nods in encouragement.

"Yes. That... that should work." _If it doesn't..._ No. He can't think like that. This _has_ to work, or Sam will derez... _die_ here...

As carefully as he can, only moving one hand away from the wound, he helps to roll Sam to his side again in order to slot the disc back into place. When nothing immediately happens, he frowns, furrowing his brow, and looks up to see a mirrored expression on Alan's face. "What...?"

Then Sam is convulsing, writhing on the floor, and it's all Tron and Alan can do to hold him. Alan is calling Sam's name and Tron is fighting to keep him from bashing his head on the hard floor as he flails in the pool of his own blood and then Sam freezes, his back in a taut arch. His eyes open, blue and glowing, and he _screams._


	3. Pain

_God, it hurts, it hurts, make it stop, please make it stop!_ Sam can't think anything coherent beyond the pain; it feels like he's being ripped apart from the inside, a million tiny claws digging into his skin and muscles and pulling him to pieces. He can hear screaming, a horrible, tortured noise, and he wonders who it is for a moment before he realizes the sound is coming from his own throat. He can't breathe, can't see, and he wonders if this is death and please, please, someone make it _stop!_ Another wave of agony surges through him and he gags, retches, chokes, and feels strong hands on his shoulders, rolling him to his side.

"_What's happening? Is he derezzing?"_

_"I don't... I don't know! Sam, it's all right, just hold on, it'll be over soon..."_

The voices echo over him, words barely understood. The hand on his shoulder is still there, warm, steady, holding him as he thrashes and writhes, and Sam _needs_... he doesn't know, he just needs...

Managing to control his limbs for the moment, he grabs that hand, pulling it down, wrapping a strong arm tight around him, hearing a surprised gasp over his own sobs of pain. "Just... just s-stay..." he chokes out, and he feels a warm body come to rest behind him, curling behind his own, arms wrapping around him, pulling him close. Everything hurts, and he's still shaking, unable to stop the cries and moans, but now it's a little less cold, and he can feel a faint pulse of energy from the hands resting on his chest, and maybe... maybe it doesn't hurt so bad now as he fades into blackness.

When Sam comes back to consciousness, it's to the blurry face of Alan Bradley staring down at him, his face full of concern. For a brief moment, Sam wonders just what the hell he's done this time to make himself ache all over like this, but then it all comes back in a rush: the muggers, the trip to the Grid, Tron holding him as Alan does... _something_ to his disc, the wrenching, nauseating pain, and then warmth and comfort...

Shifting slightly, he feels that there are still strong, warm arms wrapped tightly around him, and he looks down to see Tron's hands pressed to his chest, circuit bars on his fingers glowing in a slow pulse. With a groan, he pulls away, pushing himself up on his elbows and wincing at the foul taste in his mouth and the sticky-slickness of the floor where he's lying. There's _so much_ blood, pooling around him, drying on the floor and his suit, splattered on Alan, staining Tron's hands, and he swallows hard, realizing just how close he'd come to dying here. "W-what... how...?" He's not sure he can even formulate the question he wants to ask.

"Alan-1... Alan used some of my code to repair you," Tron says from beside him, and Sam didn't even think a program could sound shaken before now.

Alan's moving now, leaning forward, brushing his fingers lightly over Sam's stomach. "I didn't know if it would work," he says, and his voice is rough too, and Sam won't mention the glint of moisture he can see behind the older man's glasses. "Our bodies are turned to code here, of some kind, but it's different than any sort of basic program. I was able to patch Tron's code into yours and compile it, enough to make... ah, _repairs_. Looks like... looks like you're going to be all right. I think."

Sam finally looks down at himself, at the torn and half-derezzed spot where his injuries had shown when he first came through the portal. He barely remembers those moments, delirious with pain and blood loss, everything a blur, voices, cold, shivering, blackness... he shakes himself out of those too-recent memories and focuses on the newly-healed skin beneath the suit. Grimacing, he wipes the cloying blood away, then blinks in surprise. "What the...?" Patterned on his body, faintly glowing in the darkness of the duplicate Arcade, a mesh of delicate lines begins to emerge. Sam hesitates, almost afraid to touch, watching them brighten and pulse as he swallows, feeling a surge like adrenaline rushing through him.

"It must have been from the code transfer," Tron says, moving to his side. Sam watches as Tron reaches out to touch the new design, the lights on his gloved fingers still dimmed with Sam's own blood, and he shivers again, then jerks in shock as the program makes connection with his skin. The circuit lines abruptly brighten, blue-white racing along the pattern. Eyes wide, Sam meets Tron's surprised gaze, and Tron pulls his hand back quickly.

"What was _that_?"

Tron shifts, the lights on his suit flaring briefly. "Circuits," he begins slowly, his tone clearly awkward, though Sam has no idea why. "You've got circuits now."

Sam's eyebrows shoot up, but Tron clearly isn't going to elaborate on the subject any further as he pulls away. "Circuits, huh?" He pokes lightly at the glow, but doesn't feel the spark or connection that happened when Tron's fingertips brushed his skin. "So, what, do these look like yours under that suit?"

Tron doesn't answer, but stands and offers Sam a hand up. Sam grimaces at the sticky feeling lingering on his fingers, drying and cracking on the second-skin material of the gridsuit, but wipes it off as best he can before accepting the help. The room spins in a slow circle around him and he sways, staggering as he tries to regain his equilibrium; when he balances again, he finds his arm slung over Tron's shoulders and Alan's hand steadying him at his side.

"Easy there... just take it slow." He's not quite sure at first whose voice it is... Alan's, it has to be, the timbre is rougher, older, though it's disconcerting for a moment to try to figure it out. He laughs shortly and finds the floor solid under his feet.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." He waves off their concern, but keeps his arm around Tron's shoulders for a longer moment, still not quite trusting his legs. "Had worse, okay?"

Alan laughs, shaking his head. "No, I really don't think you have." Sam can see the weariness etched into the older man's face, and for a brief moment he feels a twinge of guilt, seeing every scrape, every bruise, every broken bone he's ever had reflected in Alan's eyes. He swallows and nods, quirking a smile that's meant to look cocky but probably just seems tired.

"Well. Yeah. But I've felt worse, anyway." He stretches, easing his arm off Tron's shoulders and testing his balance again as he steps toward the door. _But not by much,_ he admits to himself. Give him bruises and broken bones from a stupid stunt any day over getting his... _code_ rewritten. He shudders faintly, not wanting to think about that, or what the glowing lines on his skin will mean once he returns home. Flexing his fingers, he flicks more drying blood away and tries to ignore the dark puddle on the floor as he turns to Alan. "Whaddya say we get out of here, huh? Need to get back. Those assholes took dad's motorcycle."

A look he doesn't quite understand passes between Alan and Tron, and the program moves closer to him again. "You may want to consider recharging first," he says slowly. "A recompile like that would be draining for any program..."

"But I'm not a program," Sam interrupts, more harshly than he intends. He draws in a deep breath and tries to ignore the weak, shaky feeling that keeps threatening to overwhelm him, then forces a smile. "Hey, don't worry 'bout me. I just want to get home, have a shower and a beer, and sleep for about a week. Okay?"

Alan steps forward, placing his hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezing lightly. "All right, Sam. Let's get you home."

* * *

><p>Tron watches Alan and Sam step into the light of the Portal, his hand raised in farewell. The younger User still looks tired, drained, and the faintly-visible circuit lines on his body are dangerously dim, despite the energy vial Tron pressed on him during the light-jet flight over the Sea. If Sam were a program...<p>

But no. Sam had been adamant about that point. Tron's code may have repaired him, but he is still a User. Isn't he? Tron can't shake the feeling of worry he'd seen on Alan's face, though...

No. If Sam and Alan say it will be all right, he has to trust them.

He waits until the two Users fade into the beam, shooting upward into the stream of light, Alan's disc raised over his head. As always, there is the pang of loss as the Users leave the system, but he knows that they will return, as they have promised.

The portal goes dark before him, and Tron shivers slightly as the wind dies, leaving the place seeming even more empty than before. Turning away, he pulls a light-jet baton from the holster in preparation for the trip back, but hesitates as he sees the crust of black-red still clinging to his gloved hand. Grimacing, he tries to rub it away, but the blood is stubborn, flaking, crumbling, making his circuits itch, and it's _everywhere_, clinging to every part of his suit, streaks and gobs of it that he can't even see but he can feel it still.. He needs it _off_, the reminder that Sam nearly died in his arms, on the floor of the Arcade...

_Sam lies beneath him, helpless, a disc at his throat as the crowd chants __**derezz, derezz**__ but a bright red drop of blood splatters on the mirrored floor of the Arena, sparking recognition in his processes and stopping him from spilling more of that blood..._

Tron jerks himself out of the unwanted memory file, his hand clenching into a fist. _No._ He won't think about that. And he has to get this blood off, _now_. He's alone out here, no one to see, no one to care, so he reaches up to his neck, flicking a sequence to derez his suit completely. Closing his eyes, he feels the wind pick up again, caressing his bare circuits as the armor crumbles, taking the blood and filth with it. For a long moment he simply stands still, letting the last remnants of the portal carry away the memories, then his fingers trail up again, brushing his throat and rezzing the suit back into existence, now spotless clean.

Even if he can still _feel_ the cloying stickiness on his hands...

Pushing away that feeling, he strides out of the portal structure, jumping off the side of the landing strip and rezzing the light-jet underneath himself as he falls toward the Sea. Focused on the city in the distance, he tries to ignore the dark water beneath him, more memories trying to surface, of a fight in mid-air, a fall, and being lost for so long... he can never fly over this place without at least thinking of it.

A bright flash of light from behind him draws him out of those darker thoughts. Startled, he glances back, and his eyes widen behind his helmet as he sees the light of the portal glowing bright again, a beacon over the black sea. _Why...?_

It hasn't been long at all since Alan and Sam left, and knowing that time passes differently in the User world, Tron realizes that barely a few moments would have passed for them. All thoughts of the past, dark memories and regrets pushed aside, Tron accelerates his jet toward the city, angling toward the Arcade.

_Something's gone wrong._


End file.
